


La Petite Morte

by Elizabeth Perry (watersword)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-20
Updated: 2005-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:46:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watersword/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Perry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ever think about dying?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Petite Morte

"Ever think about dying?" Orlando asks.

"Try not to," Viggo answers from across the room, and Orlando isn't sure whether he means that he tries not to think of dying or whether it's advice. "Fuck."

The dull thud of Viggo's skull on the underside of the shelf with the Jaegermeister is not musical, but the clink of the bottles as they wobble together, like the beginning ballet classes at Guildhall, is. But Viggo emerges, not even rubbing the spot he bumped, and with no dust on his skin or blurring the sharp lines of the hairs on his face, holding a bottle of Argentinean red.

Orlando holds out the beer glasses. Viggo looks at him, and Orlando takes the bottle, pours one glass, and takes a sip. "Trying to get me liquored up?"

"Do I need to?" Viggo takes the glass from him and turns it halfway so that when he drinks, his lips are on the same spot as Orlando's were. It's a cliche, and so is the warm uncurling in Orlando's stomach.

Viggo's fingers on his face are cool from the glass and Orlando's skin feels taut. "No," he says, "No, you don't."

"Good."

The kiss is much like the wine—warm and it makes his mouth feel like the only part of his body that matters. He smiles into it, and Viggo's lips follow the curve, which opens his mouth further, and then it's nothing like wine. It's like nothing but itself, and that is enough, more than enough.

Denim is not a forgiving fabric, and metal teeth are not what Orlando wants to have touching him at this moment. He rocks his hips forward a little and the bite of the seam against his groin is not quite painful. Not quite, but it's close enough — too close, and he's too far away from Viggo. Just the thickness of two layers of fabric is too much, feels like the distance from London to New Zealand, and he knows exactly how far that is.

He can distinguish every molecule that separates him from Viggo at this moment, and there are far too many of them. He moans a little into the kiss, nothing blatant, nothing girly, and lets his weight settle forward a bit.

"Slut," Viggo says as he presses back.

Orlando doesn't bother taking offense. Waste of good fucking energy, and besides, he knows what Viggo really means. He means christ you turn me on, he means you shouldn't be able to do this to me, he means why are you here Orlando, and Orlando can only answer what Viggo doesn't ask.

Poets never listen to words and think they mean what they mean, and Orlando doesn't bother with that, either. He just bites Viggo's lip and lets his hands settle on the small of his back. This is the only way to live, kissing Viggo in his past and his future and his present. It's a gift, and Orlando is a selfish bastard. He's not going to share. Not now, not ever, and he never wants to die, never wants to think about death, never wants to think about anything but the scrape of Viggo's beard against his chin and the ridge on the roof of Viggo's mouth.

"You're killing me," Viggo manages to say between licking the tendons of Orlando's throat.

"Not a bad way to go," Orlando mumbles.

"Best."

"Yeah oh _fuck_. You," and the world whites out before he can finish and say _are the best_. "I," he thinks, "I love."


End file.
